When Sara Danced
by Rynn Abhorsen
Summary: When Sara danced she felt alive. When Sara danced she was beautiful and normal and good again. But she hadn't danced in years. Perhaps, with a colleague at the lab's New Year's party, she could get a little piece of Sara Sidle back. [NS]


**A/N:** I've been on a CSI kick lately, at least as far as fanfiction goes. This is another Sara-centric piece, though Nick does play a part. There isn't anything terribly romantic in it, but I think her feelings for him are relatively clear. As far as dance is concerned, I only took ballet for one year and modern for three, so if I made any mistakes about the terminology, I would appreciate it being corrected in a review. I hope you enjoy it.

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When Sara Danced

She hadn't danced in years. That was not to say that she never had, of course. There had been the ballet classes that her parents had sent her to, back in California, back when things were stable. Those fifteen tiny girls, each with little grace but a smile to compensate, all striking the various poses. First, with the slippered feet splayed apart, second, leg slightly extended, and so on. Dance courses as a young child seemed to be a prerequisite for young girls. Perhaps, had her parents attempted to enroll her in grade school without ballet courses, they would have been seized by the child-rearing police and thrown in jail.

Perhaps it would have been better that way.

She, unlike ten of those fifteen girls, had continued with the ballet courses, actually becoming a relatively graceful ballerina. It was her long limbs and height, she had been told, that lent themselves well to the aerial movements of the craft. She had been in several ballets, continuing her pursuit of dance even as a high school student.

In the closet of her apartment, folded with the utmost care and pushed to the back, was a white tulle creation, the graceful skirt and glitter-studded bodice all covered by the long, dramatic, white chiffon sleeves. The costume had been from a spring show. She remembered that show well. She was a white seedling, drifting upon the wind with a freedom man never truly experienced. She was supposed to appear weightless.

But then why did she feel so heavy now?

Also in her bedroom closet was a shoebox, the simple cardboard bound with pink ribbon. Inside was one pair of ballet slippers, the ones she wore at her last performance. The simple pink shoes were the epitome of feminine grace. Every once in a while she would gingerly hold those slippers, fingering the silk and cotton and the long, satin ribbons that bound her childhood to memory.

At times her feet would recall the memory of those slippers, or the harsh wooden blocks in the toes that caused the graceful arc of the foot. At times she'd recall the memory of those satin ribbons winding languidly up her leg.

In that box as well were ticket stubs, photos and programs from all of her performances. Yes, she had been a daughter, a student, a scientist. She denied none of that. But she had also been a dancer.

She hadn't danced in years.

Quietly sitting at the table, she looked around the room. It was the Clark County New Year's party and Ecklie, for some reason unknown to her, had decided to blow the budget by renting out the reception hall at The Sphere. As Greg made a joke to Catherine, Sara again wondered why she had come. In truth, she had even bought a dress for the occasion. It was a dark, vibrant red creation of silk and satin, draping over her shoulders and trailing gracefully over her waist, exposing a swathe of pale skin at the back before clinging to her hips and cascading in a waterfall of red to her knees. She had received several compliments on the dress and more than a few unwholesome, barely-masked advances.

The lush, expensive room at the casino even had a dance floor, upon which several couples moved. Sara's left foot, the more sensitive of the two, the same foot she had broken at the age of sixteen in a production of Swan Lake, tapped against the thick, blue carpet, recalling the memory of dance. All of the hundred movements, the coupé jeté, petits jetès, pirouette piquée… They all remained firmly ingrained in her muscles, in her memory, tattooed upon her heart.

"Hey, Sara."

The voice was warm, without guile or deceit. It contained pure, unadulterated affection. Given those factors, Sara knew who it was before her eyes lifted from the thorough inspection of the tablecloth. Her smile was sincere. "Hey, Nick."

He gave her a smile to mirror her own, the warmth in his words seeping into his dark, glittering eyes. He gestured to her outfit saying, "Where have you been hiding that dress?"

"Oh," she looked down in response, "I bought it a few weeks ago."

"It looks good on you."

"Thanks."

He cocked his head to one side. "What do you think of the party?"

"It's nice, but I'd rather they spend the money on lab equipment."

His laugh was infectious. "Typical Sara."

She quirked an eyebrow. "Typical?"

He shrugged. "Well Ecklie's gonna' get fired for spending this much anyway, so why don't we enjoy it while it lasts?"

His arm made a sweeping motion to the dance floor.

She gave a lift of the left shoulder, pushing away her thoughts of ballerinas and pink tulle. "Why, Mr. Stokes, are you propositioning me?"

He smiled, "Why, Miss Sidle, I believe I am."

The flirtatious friendship between them had been Sara's refuge over the last four years. Since leaving San Francisco, she had slowly felt all of the things she had defined herself with seemed to slip away. She had been stable and became an alcoholic, a CSI and then the brunt of lab rumors, an attractive young woman to a live-in lab rat. But Nick was something solid, something of a law of nature. Always there, always predictable. He made her feel like she still mattered, like she was still Sara Sidle.

She took his outstretched hand and followed him to the dance floor. Dancing was somewhat of her secret. Since her DUI, Sara felt like everyone had suddenly been privy to her private life. She was no longer a brilliant scientist, no longer a dutiful daughter, not even a dancer anymore.

Perhaps Nick could be the key to getting just a piece of Sara Sidle back.

He put his hands on her hips and she placed hers around his neck. He smiled and said, his voice quiet and husky and almost (Sara nearly wanted to kill herself for thinking this)…intimate. "You're wearing perfume."

She, being as tall as he, was able to look him in the eyes. "Nick, please tell me you don't analyze every aspect of my physical characteristics."

He gave her a small smile even as they continued dancing, "Please, Sara, I'm a CSI. Plus, it smells different than your shampoo."

She laughed, giving him the gap-toothed smile she knew he liked. The song, soft jazz, was different than classical music, the porcelain melodies and Venetian glass notes of ballet.

Even with the difference, even in scarlet satin instead of pink tulle, Sara believed herself to be a dancer again.

"You know," she said, her voice gone dark and soft, "I used to be a dancer."

His voice was curious. "Really?"

She looked up from where she had been inspecting the collar of his shirt with sharp precision. "Yeah. I danced from when I was six to when I was eighteen."

"I can tell."

Now it was her turn to be surprised. "Yeah?"

"It's your legs. They're long. The look like they belong to a ballerina."

She was humbled, feeling just a bit like she was normal again. "Oh." A glint of humor returned to her eyes. "Have you been checking out my legs, Nick?"

He gave her a smile and a mocking tip of his hat. "Yes, Miss Sidle, I believe I was."

She tightened her arms and put her head against his chest, breathing in the scent of aftershave and Nick. They kept dancing, swaying softly with all the familiarity she desired.

His chest vibrated against her ear as he asked, "Why'd you stop?"

She looked up, "what?"

"I mean, why'd you stop dancing?"

"Oh."

Pink tulle,

Red satin,

Pointed slippers,

Tennis shoes,

Pristine hands,

Latex gloves.

She gave him another smile. "I don't think I ever did."


End file.
